


Martyrs from Heathens/Fodder from Saints

by verulams (finnlogan)



Category: Act Series - The Dear Hunter (Albums)
Genre: Implied Drugs, M/M, Overstimulation, Post Orgasm Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnlogan/pseuds/verulams
Summary: Of course, in the end, there was no reason to be an upstanding citizen.***The Usher sighs and rolls over, forcing Hunter to sit back on his haunches.“Hunter, then,” amends the Usher. Hunter realises with a sharp little jolt that the only name he has for the Usher is just that: the Usher.“And… your name?” He says, eyeing him carefully as he rises off one side of the bed and stretches.“Just Usher will do fine.”The muscles in his back move obviously as the Usher flexes, pushing and pulling the musculature of his shoulders with his hands. Hunter thinks, very very absently, that the Usher had a nice ass. His legs distantly ache. He’s very busy being transfixed by the way Usher’s fingers work at his limbs to bother to move.
Relationships: Hunter/The Usher
Kudos: 4





	Martyrs from Heathens/Fodder from Saints

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some pornography nobody asked for and that nobody will read!
> 
> Casey Crescenzo don't interact

“I'm a busy man, Usher.” Hunter turns to leave, footsteps clinging to wet ground. His coat hangs heavy on his shoulders. 

“Funny,”

God, Hunter’s going to have to think about how he deals with this one. Quite aside from being  _ acutely _ terrible, he was tricky. Worse than tricky, he's  _ clever _ . Hunter pauses, halting with one foot on the cobbles and one on the verge. 

“...’funny’?” He turns around when The Usher doesn't respond. “In what way?”

That was one of Hunter’s many problems, really. Rising to things. Reacting, overreacting. He should leave it. 

He doesn't. 

“Well, in the sense that you're a busy man. It's….  _ Odd  _ that you're a busy man.”

His blood runs just a little bit colder: if he….  _ Knew, _ what would that mean? “Is it? Mayors are usually particularly busy.”

Usher steps towards him, making up the distance. He huffs out a laugh, close enough in the cold air that the little cloud hits him in the face. 

Of course, it's just air. He stumbles back a little anyway. 

“Don't be obtuse, boy.”

Hunter feels his eyebrows drop a little. “Show some  _ respect.” _

As Hunter scowls, the usher raises his eyebrows. “To you?”

“Yes. I'm the  _ Mayor _ . You're…”

“Careful, mayor. What am I?”

There's a glint in his eyes that says he  _ wants  _ Hunter to say ‘the devil’, that he wants to hear Hunter accuse him of being a horrifying person.  _ Worse _ than the devil: just a man, somehow. 

Instead, Hunter adjusts his scarf. “A  _ doorman.” _

_ “ _ Rude. Very rude.” returns the Usher, quick as a flash. “And what were you before your fine municipal ascendancy?”

“A soldier.”

“Fodder,” spits the Usher. 

“ _ I served us all-”  _ Hunter snarls. He’d lost too much to listen to that kind of bullshit. They all had. 

“More or less than you serve us now?”

“Listen, usher, if all you can do is spin wicked words from your  _ forked tongue,” _ he watches as the usher cocks his head, “I'll be on my way. As I said. Busy man.”

He tips his head, turns to leave. It'd do him better to not fall to temptation, for once in his life. 

Silence but for his footsteps and the splash of water from muddy puddles. 

“Wait, Mr. Mayor!” Calls the bastard. Hunter stops, breathes deeply. Turns around. 

The Usher runs up towards him, something haggard and tired in his eyes. 

“Listen,” he says. “I'm… sorry,” and Hunter would almost buy it but for the gritted teeth and scowl. 

“Of course, Mr. Usher. Now again, I’ll be on my-”

“No!” Hunter jolts as the Usher clutches at his lapels. “Just…” The Usher pauses, looks morose for just a moment more. He visibly composes himself, one feature at a time, and finishes by stepping away and smoothing back his hair. 

“Just… another moment of your time?”

***

Hunter’s never been very good at being  _ proactive.  _ He's a reactionary man, works in response to things. 

But there's not much to equip him for the journey to the bar he’s been frequenting. 

There's not much to equip him for Usher buying for him, certainly less to equip him for when the Usher offers to  _ sit in _ . Hunter’s brain is fuzzy, would be fuzzy anyway. The building around him sways like he’s been lost at sea and is finally,  _ finally _ finding his way back to shore. 

That's how he always feels. 

It's the Usher that’s different. 

He’s a stalwart figure, sober and aggressively so. He doesn't seem uncomfortable though, instead eyeing Hunter with interest. 

“Mayor,” he says. He waits for a reply, which Hunter appreciates. There's a pause where Hunter has to remember how to speak, slumped across a chair and mouth working at half normal speed. 

“Yeah?” Hunter says, eventually. 

“You sent your family away. Why?”

“Safer,” he slurs. “Much safer than the city. Bastard priest, son of a bitch, far too dangerous.” He makes eye contact with the Usher. “You, too. Too dangerous.”

The Usher seems to consider that, so Hunter goes back to enjoying the feeling of tumbling, brain soft and thoughts few. 

“And why did you run for mayor?”

“City, my- my mother, she lived here. Had to fix it.” He swallows, feels what could be a lump in his throat. “For my son.” And that’s… not  _ strictly  _ true, but it's close enough to it that Hunter doesn't bother to correct himself. 

“Ah, yes. The child. A good boy?”

He feels like he's choking. “Always.”

“And Ms. Leading?”

Hunter’s line of sight slides, focuses suddenly on the Usher’s face. “What about her?” He says, voice suddenly hard and unforgiving. 

“She's still here, is she not?”

“Y...yeah,” he mumbles. The Usher leans back in his chair. 

“And you're not worried about her?”

Hunter can feel his face soften. “Always.”

“‘Always’?” Questions the Usher. “Rather possessive, don't you think?”

“It's Ms. Leading,” shrugs Hunter. “She knows how to take care of herself.”

“Ah,” nods the Usher. “That she does.”

Hunter looks at him, sharply. The booze sits in his head like a fog. “You know her?”

The Usher looks at him oddly. “Well, of course I do. I'm the  _ Usher.” _

Which, Hunter supposes, is true. The Dime was a big establishment, but seeing the girls as they came in and out every day probably gave someone a certain sense of familiarity. 

  
  
  


***

“Hey,” he mumbles, sharp teeth nipping along his neck. He breathes deeply, harshly, curled and tense. “I'm gonna twist your heart up, you know…” 

Music hangs low in the room, snaking its way over bent back and flushed, naked skin. Everything is the same deep, rich red- the bed sheets he’s prone on are too, that flooded-heated-warm colour.

He hadn't known that places like this- places this decadent, this  _ sultry-  _ existed outside of the Dime. 

Ghosting fingers trace his abdomen, Usher’s looking up at him now. His eyes are blue, their coldness at odds with the deep skin of the rest of him. 

They're both naked. Usher’s long fingers brush over his nipples, and he shivers. 

Wrong, probably. That charlatan of a priest would have him torched if this got any further, with the town at his back and a thousand townspeople screeching. 

Still, Usher grasps at his shoulders, and Hunter bows his head into the kiss. 

“You know this is wrong,” he murmurs at Hunter’s ear. 

“Yes,” Hunter returns. The Ushers white blonde fringe flops into his eyes and he blinks. “Your hair,” he mumbles, fingers picked up from where they were braced on the bed to stroke the other man’s face.

The Usher curls a smile at the corners of his mouth. “What about it?”

“Dyed?”

The Usher smiles further, whole face curled and sly. He reaches up again, pulling Hunter down. “Certainly,” he breathes into Hunter’s wet mouth. Their tongues slide against one another’s, teeth nearly clinking but wet on wet, warmth on warmth.

His long, pianist fingers grip hard at the muscles of Hunter’s neck. “And you?”

He pauses in the kiss for just a second.l “My hair? It’s natural.”

The Usher chuckles, squeezing again at the block of muscle between Hunter’s shoulders and neck. “I meant your muscles, boy.”

Hunter scowls at him, just a little. “Less of the ‘boy’,  _ doorman, _ ”

The Usher sighs and rolls over, forcing Hunter to sit back on his haunches.

“Hunter, then,” amends the Usher. Hunter realises with a sharp little jolt that the only name he has for the Usher is just that: the Usher.

“And… your name?” He says, eyeing him carefully as he rises off one side of the bed and stretches.

“Just Usher will do fine.”

The muscles in his back move obviously as the Usher flexes, pushing and pulling the musculature of his shoulders with his hands. Hunter thinks, very very absently, that the Usher had a nice ass. His legs distantly ache. He’s very busy being transfixed by the way Usher’s fingers work at his limbs to bother to move. “You didn't answer me, Hunter. You're hardly scrawny.”

Hunter shrugs, softly. He feels almost feeble, a small thing. “I've never been scrawny. I’m naturally strong, always have been.”

The Usher raises an eyebrow. “Hm,” he returns, before facing Hunter from across the room. “Stand,” he orders. 

And Hunter will probably never forgive himself for it, but god forbid, he  _ stands.  _

The Usher’s eyes rove over him. As usual Hunter can't quite tell how old he is- older than Hunter, for certain, but Hunter himself was getting on a bit these days. 

“Good,” says the Usher, in a manner that seems to be mostly to himself. Hunter has to resist the urge to cover himself, instead stands with hands forced ramrod straight to his sides. The Usher tuts. “Re _ lax,”  _ he says, but it's murmured in such a way that Hunter suddenly feels like he's in a snake pit. 

Instead of relaxing, he feels his back stiffen, muscles tense. 

“Look, Hunter,” says the Usher, apparently exasperated. “if you're not here for the same reasons as me, that's fine. But you have to say.”

A small silence, where he weighs his options. His Wife would never find out, and neither would Ms. Leading. Both would be wildly disappointed if they did. 

Both would probably hate him,  _ if _ they found out. 

_ If.  _ And _ only  _ if. 

Something in his gut tightens, and his mouth says “I’m not intending to leave,” and then he realises that his mouth had spoken the truth of it.

He's not planning to leave. 

He sits on the bed and takes a second to admonish himself before the Usher clears his throat. 

“So,” says the Usher, “We’ll try that again, shall we?” The man rounds the bed, until he’s chest to head with Hunter’s crouched form. 

“Try what again?” he asks, without thinking. His lips feel slow, like he’s drunk just a little too much. In reality he’s had nothing at all. His gut curls, just a little, warm with leisure as the Usher’s cold hands sit on his shoulders again. 

“This,” says the Usher, and  _ pushes _ Hunter down, flopping with his legs splayed and his dick firmly on show.

***

“Hey boy,” he whispers, tone enticing and terrifying at once. “How do I compare to your lover?”

He stutters. Words catch in his throat and rattle in his mouth. 

Which lover?

Pressure on the base of his spine. He pushes upwards, chest jutted out and clutching onto the Usher’s front. He hasn't been so completely at another's mercy since…

Well. The war? Ms. Leading?

“Tell me what you're thinking.” Hard, cold hands at his neck. His cock, without permission, twitches. 

“W-” he starts, then stops. He hears some melody in his head that he can't quite place his finger on. 

Nails- finely manicured, he notices through a haze- brush now, sharp and even colder on his skin. 

“Which lover?” He finishes. The hand shifts off his neck, but the pressure at his spine remains. He stays prone, ass jutted out and back bent sharply. He still grasps at the Usher and blinks quickly as one of his breaths ghosts over his face, tickling the hair that's fallen down into his eyes. 

“Ah, but Hunter,” the Usher tuts, and the sound is so clear and taut that he winces. “You know the story! There's only  _ one  _ lover, isn't that right?”

“...yes,” mumbles Hunter. “Just the Wife,”

“And how do I compare to them?” The Usher purrs into his ear, cold hands on his shoulder the only thing keeping Hunter in position. 

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't. He stays safely silent, a moment caught in time as he remains prone and puppeted into position. 

“Well,” murmurs the Usher. “I'm either first on your list or I'm second,” a finger trails up from his ribs to his collarbone, “And either way, we’re not done yet, are we?”

“Ah-” Hunter lets out a little confused noise without thinking. “Aren't we?”

“No,  _ no,  _ silly boy. Of course not.”

“Don't call me boy,” The Usher gives him an unimpressed look, but Hunter just returns his flat gaze. “Call me  _ Hunter _ . Or Mr.  _ mayor.”  _

_ “ _ Fine, Mr.  _ Mayor _ ,” says the Usher, with a derisive tone to his words. “We’ve still got fun to have.”

Hunter frowns. “How? I just-” he blushes, just a little, but hopes that the dark of the room covers it, “I only just came. And you, for that matter, you too.”

“No matter,” the Usher waves a hand, brushes his concerns aside. “It's not a problem.” He cocks his head, places a finger to his lips. Without the constant contact propping him up, Hunter falls forward onto the bed with an oof. 

With his face mashed against the bedsheets, he has no time to catch the Usher’s words: “At least, it’s not a problem for  _ me.”  _

Hunter has just enough time to grunt out a noise before the Usher is flipping him over, hands vices at his hips. 

“N- you're not going to…?”

“Not going to what?” Usher leans forward, whole body braced on an arm that comes to rest on Hunter’s abdomen. He's being held down. Suddenly, he's reminded of all the reasons he was scared of this man, the rumours he was a killer or worse. That he was the devil, somehow. 

Instead, what the Usher does is spit in his free hand. 

Hunter’s brow creases, confused and probably visibly so. 

“Still not guessed yet?” He tuts. “And I thought we agreed this might be the best night of your life.”

“Uh-?” He cuts off in a groan. The Usher’s wet hand gently strokes his cock, tracing the veins of it and gently, ever so gently, brushing over the slit. “Go-o-o-d, god- _ fuck,”  _ he groans, moans out and his hips buck up without permission. His arms tense at his sides, hands fisted. His eyes scrunch up and his head flings back, teeth gritted tight and brain screeching to a halt. 

When the gentle rubbing ceases he glares at the Usher. “You could've fucking warned me, goddamn.”

The Usher laughs. “Careful with that kind of talk, Mr. Mayor. The  _ Priest _ might hear you.”

Hunter's face sours immediately. “Leave that slimy scumbag out of this.” As the Usher raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to respond, he clutches desperately at conversational straws. “You still could've warned me, though.”

The Usher’s mouth snaps shut with a small smile. “Warned you about what?” He says shortly. 

Hunter narrows his eyes. “About  _ that,” _ he gestures to the Usher’s hands, hovering as they are above his cock. 

“This?” He says, and Hunter’s eyes are widening and his brain is suddenly grinding to a stop again, no thoughts but some over-stimulated scream, bellowing and yelling out all of the swears he knows. Eventually he jolts in the right way to just about string words, “ _ Gfffff-Nostop,” _

And Usher does. 

Hunter pants. “I didn't… know that would be…” He wipes tears from his eyes. “I- didn't… hm, I…”

The Usher eyes him carefully. “Once more?”

Tentatively, ever so tentatively, Hunter says:  _ “gently.” _

So the Usher goes gently. He strokes up edges, gentle and soft and fleeting, and as he takes his fragile time Hunter roars, bucks, thrusts his hips up and away and every direction he can. His legs flail, resting one moment clasped around the Usher’s waist, the next jaggedy movements as if he’s sprawling, falling, tripping; his hands claw and relax, tense and relax, pain? Possibly, certainly this was  _ too much _ and he’s almost sobbing out groans by the time the Usher stops. 

With a very tentative look on his face, dirty hand held carefully away from both Hunter and himself, the Usher says: “a no is okay,

Hunter.”

Hunter needs a moment to recollect himself. He feels like he's gone into the future. “Ngh?” He says, ever eloquent. 

“No?” Repeats the Usher. 

“ _ No? _ ” Replies Hunter, incredulous. He feels like his mouth might still be slightly slack. “Who would say no to this?”

The Usher raises an eyebrow. “Perfectly respectable individuals,” which Hunter somehow feels is a sly remark at his expense. 

“One more taste? Or…?”

And it's like a switch flipped. 

The Usher brings his hand to Hunter’s sensitive cock, and he throws his head back, closes his eyes as tight as he can, and  _ yells _ , screams, he babbles and begs and god-knows what else, and when the Usher has to stop for fear of being hit by his flailing legs, he’s got a glint in his eye and fire in his mouth. 

“Tie me up,” it spills from his lips like some sacrilegious sacrament, and it does so without permission. 

The Usher blinks at him. “Now?”

Hunter blushes. “If. If now would be amenable, Mr. Usher…?”

The Usher smiles widely, white teeth glinting in the dim light. “Certainly, Mr. Mayor.  _ Certainly.” _

**Author's Note:**

> love u thanks for reading!


End file.
